the street, its cut-stone curbing angled outward by frost, pieces missing. The square had been paved over, the asphalt now broken, patches of dirt showing, remnants of white-painted striping still visible, the ghosts of old parking spaces.
What now? Coffee. Just ahead, Larry's Place, and he walked on to it, looked in. It was open: aproned proprietor behind the counter, a counter customer hunched over his coffee. Rube went in, ordering coffee as he sat down at the counter, glancing at the other customer as the man turned to look at him. "Major! Major Prien! My God, how are you!
"Why, I'm fine, John, just fine, Rube said easily, but-did he really know this man?
Who smiled and said, "Not quite sure about me, are you, Major? He was big, broad-backed, maybe forty, wearing a threadbare brown suitcoat over a gray flannel shirt. Sliding his coffee cup on in advance, he moved to the stool beside Rube, saving, "Take a good look.
An old-fashioned face, Rube thought, thin, tight-skinned, permanently weathered. The way Americans used to look, with haircut to match, no sissy sideburns but economically clipped high on the sides, a real last-a-month whitewall. "You look like a World War One doughboy.
"Feel like one sometimes. Well? You know me?
"I don't know. Maybe. You look like a hick; are you?
"Depends. On occasion and within limits I can be a kind of rural Noel Coward. But yeah, by inclination I'm a hick. The haircut's no disguise, it's me.
"You're smart, though.
"Well, yes, though I wouldn't call for a new deal if I were dumb. Because it wouldn't matter; I'd go along just about the way' I do anyway. I'm a simple man, I like the simple life, so there's no real need to be smart. Kind of a waste, actually. I have to be smart enough to stay' simple and not get all dissatisfied. The way I'd be anyway if I were dumb. You follow me?
"I'm not sure. Maybe I'm not smart enough.
"And what are your hobbies and favorite sports, Major?
"Well, John, I like things to go my way. And I work at it harder and longer than most. What I don't like is anyone trying to jerk me around. So just tell me; I think maybe I know you, but I'm not sure: jog my memory.
"Remember Kay Veach? Thin, black-haired girl?
Rube shook his head.
"From the Project. I phoned her; lives in Wyoming. But she didn't remember me or the Project. How about Nate Dempster? Around thirty? Bald. Wore glasses. Rube shook his head again. "Also from the Project, and also didn't remember it or me. Oscar Rossoff?
"Oscar, yeah. I phoned him. He said you'd called. And gave me your name.
"Did he now? McNaughton smiled. "Oscar was a little unhappy with me. Couldn't quite remember me. Or the Project. Almost! But-no. Got mad when I pushed him about the Project.
"The Project, the Project. What the hell is the Project!
"Well. McNaughton tasted his coffee, made a face, setting it down. "You never quite get used to how bad this stuff really is. Picture a big building, Major Prien. Fills a whole city block. Made of brick, no windows. On the outside says, Beekey's Moving and Storage, phone number, stuff like that. But that's only a front: inside, the building is gutted. Every floor but the top one ripped out, and the top one turned into offices. Underneath, just a hollow shell of brick walls, a block square. And down on the floor-
"The Big Floor.
"Yeah! You're doing good! Down on the Big Floor, something like movie sets. Separated by walls. An Indian tepee on a stretch of prairie, walls painted to look like more. World War One trenches in another, a barbed-wire no-man's-land stretching away in front. An actual house in another. An exact replica of a house right here in Winfield, but the way it was in the twenties. And a man living in it: me. He sat grinning at Rube.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm all ears.
"Real Crow Indians living in the tepee; had to be taught the language, though. Guys in the trenches wearing 1917 U.S. Army uniforms. All of us getting the feel of how it was, you see. Before we moved
What now? Coffee. Just ahead, Larry's Place, and he walked on to it, looked in. It was open: aproned proprietor behind the counter, a counter customer hunched over his coffee. Rube went in, ordering coffee as he sat down at the counter, glancing at the other customer as the man turned to look at him. "Major! Major Prien! My God, how are you!
"Why, I'm fine, John, just fine, Rube said easily, but-did he really know this man?
Who smiled and said, "Not quite sure about me, are you, Major? He was big, broad-backed, maybe forty, wearing a threadbare brown suitcoat over a gray flannel shirt. Sliding his coffee cup on in advance, he moved to the stool beside Rube, saving, "Take a good look.
An old-fashioned face, Rube thought, thin, tight-skinned, permanently weathered. The way Americans used to look, with haircut to match, no sissy sideburns but economically clipped high on the sides, a real last-a-month whitewall. "You look like a World War One doughboy.
"Feel like one sometimes. Well? You know me?
"I don't know. Maybe. You look like a hick; are you?
"Depends. On occasion and within limits I can be a kind of rural Noel Coward. But yeah, by inclination I'm a hick. The haircut's no disguise, it's me.
"You're smart, though.
"Well, yes, though I wouldn't call for a new deal if I were dumb. Because it wouldn't matter; I'd go along just about the way' I do anyway. I'm a simple man, I like the simple life, so there's no real need to be smart. Kind of a waste, actually. I have to be smart enough to stay' simple and not get all dissatisfied. The way I'd be anyway if I were dumb. You follow me?
"I'm not sure. Maybe I'm not smart enough.
"And what are your hobbies and favorite sports, Major?
"Well, John, I like things to go my way. And I work at it harder and longer than most. What I don't like is anyone trying to jerk me around. So just tell me; I think maybe I know you, but I'm not sure: jog my memory.
"Remember Kay Veach? Thin, black-haired girl?
Rube shook his head.
"From the Project. I phoned her; lives in Wyoming. But she didn't remember me or the Project. How about Nate Dempster? Around thirty? Bald. Wore glasses. Rube shook his head again. "Also from the Project, and also didn't remember it or me. Oscar Rossoff?
"Oscar, yeah. I phoned him. He said you'd called. And gave me your name.
"Did he now? McNaughton smiled. "Oscar was a little unhappy with me. Couldn't quite remember me. Or the Project. Almost! But-no. Got mad when I pushed him about the Project.
"The Project, the Project. What the hell is the Project!
"Well. McNaughton tasted his coffee, made a face, setting it down. "You never quite get used to how bad this stuff really is. Picture a big building, Major Prien. Fills a whole city block. Made of brick, no windows. On the outside says, Beekey's Moving and Storage, phone number, stuff like that. But that's only a front: inside, the building is gutted. Every floor but the top one ripped out, and the top one turned into offices. Underneath, just a hollow shell of brick walls, a block square. And down on the floor-
"The Big Floor.
"Yeah! You're doing good! Down on the Big Floor, something like movie sets. Separated by walls. An Indian tepee on a stretch of prairie, walls painted to look like more. World War One trenches in another, a barbed-wire no-man's-land stretching away in front. An actual house in another. An exact replica of a house right here in Winfield, but the way it was in the twenties. And a man living in it: me. He sat grinning at Rube.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm all ears.
"Real Crow Indians living in the tepee; had to be taught the language, though. Guys in the trenches wearing 1917 U.S. Army uniforms. All of us getting the feel of how it was, you see. Before we moved
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